Okay, so here's a small little tale from the depths of my mysterious mind. I've been avoiding my other responsibilities like the plauge with this on my mind, so I'm glad it's done. This was originally a request from pkfloyd94.

Gregory House was exhausted. He'd been up for almost four days now. Non-stop working. His latest patient was giving him a hell of a time.

Only Chase was here right now. He'd sent the other two home hours ago, Chase before them. His ducklings had to be well rested, even if he wasn't. Two days was their limit- apparently, four was his. He'd been sending them home in shifts. As far as the other two knew, House had been going home as well; Chase was the only one that was privy to the information that House hadn't left his office at all.

It didn't help that he probably had pneumonia. He'd been coughing violently now for the past six hours- something Chase wouldn't let him forget. He'd been sick when he'd come into work four days ago, but he'd ignored it as usual and had simply hoped it would go away. No such luck.

What had started of as what he thought was a chest cold had quickly gotten worse- and he wasn't exactly bothering to do anything for it. The last time he'd eaten had been… oh, what was it… yesterday? Sometime in the early morning hours of that day, Chase had force fed him a sandwich and a coffee. He'd eaten about half of it, but then had been distracted by something.

House was now being eyed by his longest running fellow. He glared back from across the room. To be fair, it would have been more effective if he hadn't been standing up simply to make sure he didn't pass out.

"House, you need to go get some help," he said, for the fiftieth time. "You're going to run yourself to death."

"Thank you so much," House snapped, tired of being lectured. "Now can we get back to the case?"

They discussed it for about five minutes before Chase stopped him. "We've gone over this a million times. You aren't helping him by killing yourself. For the love of God, go to Wilson before I bring him here!"

House glared at Chase from his position at the whiteboard. Truthfully, all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball on his sofa and fall asleep for the next four years- but he had work to do.

He made to snark back at Chase, but a cough cut him off mid snipe and forced him to fight for air. Chase looked both worried and pissed.

"Go," he demanded. "If nothing else, steal some of his food, because I haven't seen you eat in a while."

House relented, if only because Chase was seriously looking as if he was about to drug him and drag him off to the ER. He hung his head and closed his eyes.

"Fine," he croaked, voice hoarse from all the coughing. "Rerun the tests- full body scan, the works. I'm getting really tired of this patient. And after you do, go home and go to sleep. Your fellow fellows should be here within the hour- if not, feel free to give them a wakeup call."

Chase nodded and left, a smug-ish expression on his face. He knew when he'd won.

House rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was just lucky that Chase didn't know he'd fallen that morning. If he had, there would have been no end to the lecturing.

James Wilson sat in his office at two o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, trying and failing to focus on his lunch.

He was worried. He hadn't seen House at all in the last few days, aside from passing glances. It wasn't like the man to avoid him totally, especially when it came to meal time.

He sighed and poked at his pasta with his fork, not noticing the door open and close quietly as House limped in.

Wilson looked up from his lunch to see House seated in front of him, chin resting on the heel of his hand. He was idly playing with one of Wilson's patient's gifts- a toy car he'd gotten from a ten year old. The boy had been cancer free on his last check up. House's eyes followed it as it drove around his imaginary road.

"Does someone like, page you when I begin eating?" Wilson asked, only half joking. He was taking a very late lunch, so he was surprised that House had shown up now instead of when he usually ate, to freeload.

House rolled his eyes, uncharacteristically silent, his shoulders slumped. Wilson eyed him suddenly, putting down his fork. House didn't look good. His face was pale, his hands had a slight tremor. The bags under his eyes could have been sold at a department store.

"What," he demanded shortly, looking the man up and down, "are you not telling me."

House shrugged, again, not using his words. Wilson blinked. "Did Cuddy take away your TV?"

House smirked, a low chuckle escaping him. It sounded raspy.

"Aha!" Wilson exclaimed, grinning at House's frown. "Your throat hurts, doesn't it?"

It suddenly made sense, why House had been avoiding him. He always did, when he was sick. It was some weird doctor complex the man had; he seemed to think if he ignored the illness, it would go away and not bother a diagnostician of his caliber.

House looked up at the ceiling, refusing to meet the oncologist's eyes.

"Can you talk at all?"

House finally said something. "Don't get to hopeful," he rasped. "I can still slice you to pieces with this tongue."

Wilson looked triumphant. "Yeah, but I can hardly hear you. All I need to do is hum, and everything you say will be lost to me."

House frowned at him, and flicked the car off the desk. The fiery explosion sound effects were slightly dampened by the loss of his voice.

Wilson stood up. "If you came in here sounding like that, you obviously need me to look you over," he stated, not waiting for an argument. "Come on, let's go to the clinic."

"Wilson, I don't need-"

Wilson began humming loudly, efficiently drowning out House's complaints. The man shot dagger eyes at him, but eventually followed him out. Wilson could hear his cane thumping against the tile.

Whelp, there's the first bit. I've already got everything written up, so an update is coming soon. Tell me what you think of it.